Tactile Functions
by SilverMoonPhantom
Summary: It wasn't that Sherlock hated sex, in fact, he quite enjoyed it most of it. Watching John come apart like this, it was incredibly interesting. Ace!Sherlock


Please, touch me.

It was a request that never passed his lips, no matter how many times it sprang up in his mind. The idea tumbled around, leaping up to screaming heights and falling miserably back down to a whisper.

He watched John's face twist in pleasure, pink lips sticking together for a moment before opening in a gasp. He felt the smooth texture of the man's thighs, long fingers brushing gently against, then digging into nerves that alighted the man's body with arousal.

The man's chest heaved, strong hands clenching at the bedsheets, and grey eyes tracked each movement with fascination, categorizing each reaction, filing it carefully away.

He was beautiful like this, John Watson, muscles coiled like a spring, completely unashamed of his own nudity as he breathed approval and gasped out requests for more of the same.

It wasn't that Sherlock hated sex, in fact, he quite enjoyed it most of it. Watching John come apart like this, it was incredibly interesting.

No two sessions were exactly alike, and though some remained constant, the pressure points to set off arousal constantly shifted. There were always new reactions to find, new positions to try, new combinations of sensations to experiment with. John was always so reactive, too, it was brilliant.

He leaned down, lips trailing over the whispers of scars, teeth brushing the rise of a hip bone and eliciting a gasp from the man below. He blinked, vision filled with pale skin and red marks and the tiny quivers of muscle and flesh.

He loved the sight of John, the smell of him, the touch, the taste. He adored the looks of awe and breathless anticipation.

He craved touch.

It was something John didn't understand, and Sherlock too proud to ask for.

Sherlock still kissed the side of his neck, his hips, his forehead, hair, ears, hands, lips, anywhere he could. Kisses were shorthand for affection and it was tactile and wonderful.

He loved kisses.

The heavy making out, though... He could go without. The tongue itself wasn't that sensitive, it was a messy ordeal and gave them both cricks in their necks. Sherlock wasn't sure what John found so great in the activity, but allowed it with minimal complaint.

He nipped the crease between thigh and hip, tracing his tongue over the site and turning his head to create a trail teasingly down the inside of John's thigh. He knew his curly hair was probably tickling the man's exposed length, he could smell the man's proximity. John groaned, and the corners of his lips quirked up in satisfaction. He placed a small kiss on the base of it, deliberately making the signature sound.

The arch of John's spine was something he wanted to measure and extrapolate on, but it was gone too soon, and Sherlock knew better than to expect the man to hold that position. Instead, he slide his tongue along the length, lips closing around the side of it, sucking gently. The introduction to a scrape of teeth pulled an involuntary hip-jerk, and a low murmur of his name.

Sherlock did not hate sex. He did enjoy it. He enjoyed John's reactions, in the context of sex. He enjoyed the worshipful look on in the man's eyes, and the warm feeling afterward, when John whispered affectionate things and held him close.

He enjoyed how happy it made John, how relaxed and content.

Was he aroused by it? Did he want these exact actions reciprocated on his body? Certainly not.

His own arousal and subsequent orgasm was a physical response to physical stimuli. It was a chore, a way to reach the flooding of chemicals that orgasm would bring.

Having another person do the touching only barely enhanced the experience, and usually led to an overall decrease in satisfaction due to the fact that they did not know what he was feeling, did not know when and how to adjust.

There was no psychological kick to keep it going.

He just didn't feel sexual attraction.

Romantic? Sure. Sensual? Definitely.

That last part's what seemed to trip John up.

There was a difference between brushing down his length and deliberately pumping at it.

The first registered as something sensual - affection mixed with tactile expression that happened to be in a very sensitive area. The second swerved right into the sexual zone, and more than often just frustrated him. Why couldn't John understand that he didn't want that?

He liked touch. He liked a hand sliding down his legs, the feeling of rough palms against his hips. Fingertips tracing his shoulder blades and the line of his back felt delightful. It was hard to make a comparison that an innately sexual person would understand.

Perhaps it was like a foot massage. He wasn't particularly interested in feet or ankles. He felt no special interest or joy in touching toes. (Despite what Anderson may think, the idiot. The toes in his fridge were an experiment) But he did like John. Appreciated the man's dry humor, and his accepting attitude.

He liked the man enough to offer a foot massage, to sooth some pain and invite relaxation. He liked the man enough to make him happy through physical means, even if the consequences were his own sore fingers.

It was that same happy giving of sensation that Sherlock delivered to the rest of John's body, during sex. Did he want his feet rubbed in return? Not particularly.

Except this metaphor was flawed, because an actual foot massage did sound rather nice.

Perhaps like food allergy? Even that wasn't accurate.

Sherlock paused, lips hovering just over the head of John's cock, breath ghosting over it. He glanced up, looking over the man's body. It was barely trembling, the muscles in his abdomen tight, breath quick. The hand on John's thigh could feel the flutter of a quick heartbeat, all signs that his partner was getting close. He lowered his mouth, dragging his bottom lip over the slit and his fingertips down John's legs.

Difficult to explain, this whole touch thing. He wanted affectionate kisses, hugs from behind, a hand carding through his hair. He wanted possessive hands sliding down his trouser pockets, landing at the small of his back, holding tightly between his fingers.

He wanted their naked bodies pressed together, sharing body heat and the pleasant friction of skin upon skin, without the expectation of a 'happy ending' to follow.

He wanted John's hands to wander, to smooth over his arms and chest, to touch and touch and never demand a reaction that wasn't going to happen.

Sherlock didn't have the urge to crush their mouths together in a battle of tongues, or rut mindlessly against his leg. He wasn't aroused by the sight or feel of anything pressing against him, and his manhood didn't care whether John was naked or clothed.

That's not to say Sherlock didn't prefer him naked. John was a beautiful human being, after all. Aesthetically pleasing, with a solid frame and a few dark freckles scattered across his back and chest. He enjoyed watching the play of muscles under pale skin, and the way light sometimes shone off his pale hair and and scattered into a halo. Even like this, exposed, vulnerable, Sherlock adored the trust that John put in him, by appearing this way.

The difference, he supposed, was that that adoration urged him to deliver kisses (forever the shorthand for affection) and protectively curl around John instead of attempt to copulate.

He felt the quiver of muscle and the heavier pull of breath, leaning back and wrapping his hand around the base of the man's length, squeezing and pulling abruptly a few times to crest the wave of pleasure his partner was riding. John pushed his head backward into the pillow, neck creating an elegant line, broken only by the shadow cast across his adams apple.

He continued the flex of his wrist, reaching for the box of tissues on the bedside. John was panting, a few muscles quivering on their own as he slowly drifted back to earth.

Sherlock swiped away the mess on his partner's stomach, feeling a curl of happiness at the inviting arms John lifted toward him.

He slunk down, accepting an open-mouthed kiss and tolerating the brush of tongues for a few moments before pulling back. John took that as his cue, laying one last peck on the tip of Sherlock's nose before pulling away himself.

"That was wonderful" John murmured, the post-coital haze still thickening his words. His hands reached up, cupping Sherlock's face and sliding a thumb over pink lips.

"You're beautiful, y'know that? Brilliant, too." And John's eyes were slowly closing, sleep reaching up to embrace the shorter man. Broad hands were pulled back, tucked up to his own chin, body shifting to face the ceiling.

Sherlock laid for a moment, watching the man he loved slowly drift off.

There it was again, that voice. It curled in his gut like an unhappy worm, writhing around itself and smacking up against his kidneys.

There is a difference between not liking sexual touch, and not liking any touch, the voice cried.

I adore you, You keep saying you adore me, and I believe you, I do. I just wish you'd show it to me in the way I most want.

**Please, touch me.**


End file.
